


Drowning (Drag Me Back To Shore)

by RocksCanFly



Category: DCU, DCU Animated, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Invasion, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksCanFly/pseuds/RocksCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only a matter of time.</p><p>Or,<br/>Kaldur'ahm of Shayeris Can Fool The World, But He Still Hasn't Learned How To Lie To Roy Harper</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning (Drag Me Back To Shore)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful yourfatherisahamster. Find them over at yourfatherisahamster.tumblr.com.

Kaldur can feel his heartbeat in his head.  

This wasn’t supposed to happen. With all his planning, this is one thing he never anticipated.

He should have. Roy always was the one who threw wrenches into his plans, who came and disrupted his nicely ordered (boring) life with his beer and jokes and sarcasm and too-blue eyes.

Eyes that stare at him now, through a domino mask, as the other man blocks his path out of the warehouse.

“It’s over, Manta,” Roy says, drawing back an arrow. It’s been a while, more than four months, since Kaldur’s seen him, and he can’t help pausing, just for a moment, just a moment where he’ll let them both pretend that Roy can stop him, that he is Manta, that Roy can stop any of this. He pauses, drinks in the details of his friend, the definition of his arms, the arching red eyebrows drawn down tight, the small scrunch to his nose as he scowls.

And then Kaldur’s dodging, rolling to the side while an arrow detonates to his left, knocks him off balance. Roy draws back, releases another arrow to bury itself in the concrete at Kaldur’s feet, gives him no time to recover. The arrow beeps once, releases a yellow gas.

Kaldur jumps back, tempted to make a comment about the foolishness of using gas against a villain whose costume incorporates an oxygen system, because he knows it’s what his father would do. He can feel the taunt dancing on his tongue.

He doesn’t risk it on off the chance that Roy might recognize his voice.

He refuses to think about how natural it feels, taunting his enemy.

Refuses to think about how he could think of _Roy_ as his enemy, for even a moment.

Roy fires more arrows after him as he ducks away, tries to put distance and shipping crates between them. The warehouse is large, but not large enough that he can easily lose a pursuer used to the rooftops and alleys of Star City.

“It ends, Manta,” Roy calls after him. He's managed to get on top of a row of shipping crates, is pursuing him from high ground.

“No more plots, no more weapons shipments,” Roy stops, trains an arrow on him. He's been chasing Kaldur into a corner, herding him with arrows, using his high ground to his best advantage. “I don’t know who you’ve been working with, but I can guarantee you the League will _love_ to find out.”

Backed into a corner, Kaldur can’t help a pang of memory. Roy looks like he once did on those nighttime patrols years ago. His silhouette against the darkness of the warehouse by the moonlight shining through the windows. The muscles of his arms, the fit of his red and black top, the easy confidence of his stance. The triumph in his voice.

Kaldur shakes his head briefly, clearing it. He needs to focus.

He needs to get away from Roy.

There’s too much at risk.

Too much he wants to say, and every moment spent here brings him closer to ruining everything.

He turns, crouches, fires his shoulder rocket at the wall of the warehouse. He hears Roy shout, jump down behind the crates for cover. Kaldur runs quickly through the hole as soon as the smoke has cleared enough to see, sprinting towards the docks. If he can reach the water before Roy recovers enough to follow, this can all end well.

Well. It can end, anyways. There will likely never be a time when he can say a mission for his father has ended _well_.

He’s ten meters from the docks when an arrow clangs against his helmet, throwing him forward. His head is ringing when Roy reaches him, slams his body into his own, pinning him to pier. They struggle against each other, Kaldur’s still ringing ears affording Roy enough of an advantage that he is able to hold his own, despite Kaldur’s superior strength.

They’re struggling, elbows driving into ribs, each trying to punch the other in the solar plexus, to knock the breath from the other, when a well-placed punch knocks the Manta helmet loose, sends it flying.

_No._

Roy draws his arm back for another hit, freezes. Stares with wide eyes, mouth gaping open slightly, fist drawn back, looking down from where he’s straddling Kaldur.

Kaldur stares back. His stomach plummets. He wants to be sick. Wants to expel everything he’s feeling from his body. Wants to run, swim, get far _far_ away as fast as possible.

Wants, desperately, _insanely_ , to laugh, to explain calmly to Roy that he’s just kidding, that this is some sick joke. That he’s been running around in Manta armor as some sort of insane new training exercise. Wishes desperately that all of this could just go away.

That Roy wasn’t looking at him like that, like the world was crashing in around his ears and Kaldur was the one who knocked it down.

And then Roy’s making a small, pained noise, scrambling back on the dock.  Kaldur sits up slowly, refuses to meet Roy’s eyes.

He wants to curl in on himself like the child he hasn’t been for eleven years.

Then Kaldur’s standing up slowly, picking up the helmet calmly while Roy jumps to his feet, grabbing his bow from where he dropped it five meters back, whirling back around to train an arrow on Kaldur’s chest.

“Explain,” Roy says, strained and angry, voice trembling. Kaldur wonders, vaguely, if it’s from rage. Doubts it.

Kaldur opens his mouth, shuts down his brain. Goes on automatic.

“I do not see what is there to explain,” he says, in the cold voice he’s been practicing, picking up from his father. “Perhaps,” he says icily, “It would behoove you to clarify your question, so I might answer it.” He tries on a smirk, one he’s been practicing in the mirror at night. It feels cheap and tawdry, and he lets it fall seconds after putting it on.

Roy shifts back, forward. Aims more squarely towards Kaldur’s heart, hands clenching tight on his bow. “What the hell,” he grits out between his teeth, “Do you think you’re _doing_?”

Kaldur raises a brow, decides that, there, that’s something he can use. He can’t smirk, but he can try on condescending. Knows it’s the best way to get Roy angry, to convince him that what he sees is really what’s in front of him

“I believe I am conducting private business. It is not of your concern,” Kaldur says, trying to stay  cool and formal. He has to make this work. He shifts back, just a bit. Tries to ignore the feeling like ice water trickling down his spine. The scream, high pitched and inaudible, in the back of his mind.

Roy shakes his head minutely. “You bastard,” he says softly. He licks his lips, a nervous, angry gesture. Something hardens in his eyes, in his stance.

“You son of a bitch. You _bastard_ ,” he spits harshly, takes a step toward Kaldur, anger in every line of his body, in the slight trembling of shoulders.

“Of all people. You, after everything you said four years ago, _after you kicked down my door_ ,” Roy pauses, sucks in a breath, continues harsher and angrier than ever.

 “After all that _bullshit_ ,” Roy advances slowly, furiously. “After all that crap you spilled about your origins not defining you, you’ve turned into a fucking _traitor_ ,” he hisses the last word, glaring through his mask. He spits it like he doesn’t spit curses, like it’s the worst thing he can think of calling someone.

Like he thinks it can hurt Kaldur, can knock him back the way arrows and blows can’t.

It does.

_It hurts._

Roy is practically in his face now. He can feel his breath, hot and quick and angry on his cheek.

It’s been months since he’s seen him. Months. His soul aches. He wants to hold his friend again. He wants Roy to stop looking at him like he’s a monster.

The stakes are too high. He needs to leave.

Kaldur swallows, steels himself.

“Your opinions are of no consequence,” Kaldur, says hollowly, turning to leave. “My loyalties ended when I discovered my true heritage. Goodbye, Red Arrow.”

His whole chest hurts. He needs to leave. He needs to get _away_.

“How _dare_ you?” Roy says softly behind him, breathe heavy with rage. “How can you be so _cold?_ Turn your back on me, the team, everyone? Did we mean **_nothing_** to you _?_ ”

And then Kaldur’s swaying back and forth, dazed and confused and a little angry. Resisting the urge, barely, to turn back around and punch the archer.

Because Roy doesn’t have the right. Even if Kaldur had gone bad, even if this wasn’t just a horrible (necessary, vital) deception, Roy has _no right_.

Not after he _left._ Not after _he_ -

The word gets caught in his throat, tries to crawl its way out, a hot angry thing that digs its claws deep and struggles toward the surface and the open air.

Abandoned me, Kaldur doesn’t say. Because he doesn’t _want_ abandoned, he doesn’t want to _feel abandoned_ , like a house left empty or a ship left to sink at sea. Abandoned things are hollow and passive and tools. They cannot rise and follow, cannot scream against their abandoners. They can only sit silently as they are left behind. Left to _rot._

Abandoned, Kaldur doesn’t say, because he doesn’t want to admit how close he has come to becoming such a person, a person who is more _thing_ than _being._

Abandoned, he can’t say, because he can’t reconcile the idea of Roy, _Roy_ , treating him like a thing, even when Kaldur himself feels that he is one. He can’t reconcile the idea, the memory of blocked radio signals and ignored text messages and missed check-ins.

 Of sitting alone in the dark because the one person he could stand being around at the time had forgotten he existed.

But it’s there, a word like a living thing, hot and red and crying out for the open air. He wants spin around, to grab Roy by the shoulders, yell at him, scream, tear into his strong arms and chest, pull out their hearts so he can show the other man and himself that they both still _have_ them.

_How can you be so cold?_

“Do not,” Kaldur says softly, turns, glares holes into that domino mask, “Do not say such things to me. You _lost_ that right.” Kaldur clenches his water bearers tightly. Resists the urge to reach up, rip off that mask, and force those blue eyes to see him without either of their masks on.

It has been so, so long.

Kaldur shakes his head, clearing it, trying.  Sets his shoulders. Steps forward, not menacingly, but with intent. With purpose of his own. Roy steps back, settles into his stance, arrow trained again on Kaldur’s chest. But for the setting they could be back in time, four years ago.

Except that’s not right.

Because they’re taller, and Roy has facial hair, scruff that wasn’t there before, and Kaldur can feel the ever present weight of the Manta armor, compressing him in, can feel the strange tingle of the breeze where it plays along the shaved portions of his scalp.

And there’s a distance now, a gap stretching out between them, yawning and wide and impossible to cross even as Kaldur closes the last few physical feet of separation.

He stops, less than two feet away, his chest pressing into Roy’s arrow. From this distance he can see the jumping in the tendons of Roy’s jaw, the tight redness to his face around the mask.

Roy swallows, shifts his stance back, just a bit. His arm doesn’t tremble. The arrow stays drawn.

“What right?” Roy says harshly, trying to be mocking, to force laughter into it. “The _right_ to say you’re wrong, that what you’re doing is wrong. That, that _you’re_ ,” another swallow, a minute shake of his head. The arrow draws a little further back, Roy’s fingers tensing on the string.

Evil, he doesn’t say. _Doesn’t_. Because there’s no way. No way that Kaldur, of all people.

They hold each other’s eyes for a long moment. And Kaldur sees it, the moment when something in Roy, the thing holding his arm steady, his spine straight, snaps and _breaks_.

And then Roy is stepping back, lowering his bow.  His shoulders sag, his hands drop limply to his sides.

“Christ, Kaldur, what _happened_ to you?” Roy asks, and his voice cracks with that unfamiliar desperation, a too-noticeable-hardly-there hitch in his breath that’s begging for something to explain this, how things could come to _this_.

How things could go so _wrong_.

I died, Kaldur wants to say. My whole life was a lie. Tula was dead, Garth _hated_ me, three of the people I trusted most, the man I swore my life to when I was _ten_ , lied to me. Had _always_ been lying to me.

And you, Kaldur wants to say. You _left_. You told me you loved me, and you _left_.

You left me, to chase a _ghost_.

Of _course_ I went bad, Kaldur wants to say, wants to scream, How could I _not_? Not for the first time, he wishes he had. Wishes that he had it in him to be selfish, to be cruel and angry and justified, to take the things eating him inside and turn them on the world.

But he doesn’t. Can’t. Because Roy is standing there, looking like he’s about to break. One of the most honestly good men he’s ever met. One of the strongest.

And he is standing there, looking for all like the world was crashing down because _Kaldur_ had gone bad. Like he’d woken up to find once again that his whole world had been a lie.

And Kaldur realizes, a sharp cold pain in his heart, how much it had hurt that everyone else had been so willing to believe he had betrayed them.

How good it feels that Roy _can’t._

Kaldur sighs, dropping his water bearers to the dock. The Manta helmet follows, thudding hollowly against the worn wood. Roy shifts back, tightens his fingers on his bow, a quick nervous flex. Raises on brow, a question.

Kaldur swallows, his tongue thick and lying useless like a dead thing in his mouth. He wets his lips, fists his hands behind his back, a military posture. Stares straight ahead, past Roy’s shoulder into nothing. He can do this.

He has to.

He can’t lie this time, give Roy the speech, the one he had practiced in the Grotto with Dick, just in case he ever had to face one of their teammates. He should. He _knows_ he should.

Knows, in the back of his mind, that he is risking _everything_.

Cannot bring himself to care.

 “I have not been honest with you, my friend,” Kaldur begins, wooden and awkward. He’s resigned to how ineffectual, how insufficient words are.

“No shit,” Roy snaps, laughs, but it’s shaky and his arms are tense.

“I cannot tell you everything,” Kaldur says, slowly. This he knows. Roy is living dangerously these days. He cannot know the plan. If he were to be captured- Kaldur cuts that though off before it can choke him.

“I can only tell you that I have not turned, not truly. There are things I cannot tell you, because of your search, because of the situations you are putting yourself in. It is-“ Kaldur pauses, braces himself for the look of fury on Roy’s face, “-It is the reason you were not told, in the first place.”

Roy scowls, but the anger is familiar this time. Its the anger of a man sick of being treated like a child, or being left out of the loop. Kaldur is hit with a sudden wave of of nostalgia.

Roy bites his tongue, nodding for Kaldur to continue.

Kaldur breathes, meets Roy’s shielded eyes. “I need you to trust in me. I am sorry,” he finishes lamely, reaching out one empty hand, a supplication.

Another long stretch of silence, unbroken but for the splash of waves against the docks, the cries of gulls overhead.

And then, slowly, Roy drops his bow to clatter on the dock, removes his mask, shoves it into a pocket. His eyes are bloodshot red and _oh Poseidon_ _he has been **crying**_.

And then Roy is in Kaldur’s personal space, grabbing him by the waist and neck. Kissing him, fiercely and angrily and Kaldur pretends that he can’t feel the small wet spots against his cheek.

Kaldur groans, a half-choked sob, and his heart is a hard. painful knot, clings to those broad shoulders and back, squeezes tightly and is squeezed tighter in return. He surges into it, into this thing that is familiar and good and so _terribly_ missed.

And then it’s over, and Roy’s breathing too hard and he still has Kaldur by the back of his neck and has one arm wrapped tight around his waist and his eyes are red.

“Okay,” Roy says, and he sounds so relieved it _hurts_ , “Okay. That’s good. I believe you. God knows I _shouldn_ ’t, but I do. I’ll always-“ he pauses, takes in one breath, deep and like he’s about to jump into deep water. Reaches up, strokes a thumb along Kaldur’s cheekbone, pressing a warm palm to his cheek.

 “I _have_ to,” he finishes, broken, desperate.

And they stand there, pressing against each other on the dock, clinging tight and hard and rocking back and forth gently, and all Kaldur want to do is shuck his armor and press Roy to a solid surface and feel his warmth against his skin because the world has been so damnably cold for last two months and he had started to fear he’d never feel warm again.

And now Roy’s burying his head into Kaldur’s neck, breathing him in and clinging tighter like he’s in agreement, and he huffs a warm half-broken laugh into his skin and grabs his hand and says-“Let’s get out of here. And if you try so say no and leave now I’ll _shoot you_.”

* * *

 Thirty minutes and one motorcycle ride later, Roy and Kaldur check into separate rooms in a small inn. Roy has Kaldur’s Manta gear in a spare duffel bag over his shoulder, and he walks up to his room while Kaldur calls to inform Manta that his contact was delayed, and that he would have to stay the night to meet her in the morning.

His father’s formal but strangely fond acceptance ringing in his ears, Kaldur climbs the creaking wooden stairs to Roy’s room. It should feel natural to lie to his father, given the nature of his mission, but anxiety plagues him.

He wonders, not for the first time since dis-entangling himself from Roy’s arms and mounting the archer’s motorbike for a ride into the small port town, whether this is worth the risk.

The strong arms and grasping hands that pull him close the moment he enters Roy’s room reassure him. A warm body pins him to the door, and Kaldur can feel weght dropping from his shoulders like sheets of melting ice.

Kaldur pulls Roy in close for a kiss, runs his hands through red hair a few inches longer than it used to be, sliding a hand under the loose black tee the archer had changed into at a deserted park a few miles out from town. The warm skin feels good against his palm, and Roy gasps into their kiss when he rakes nails teasingly down the archer’s back.

They dissolve into something wild, more feral and desperate. Hungry, for contact, heat, skin.

Roy tugs at Kaldur’s shirt, lifts it up over his arms and off his body, attacks that smooth dark chest with his hands, his mouth. His hands caress Kaldur's muscled abdomen, work thier way down to run thumbs along the waist of his pants, all teasing heat and pressure. 

 Kaldur moans softly when chapped lips latch onto his neck, a wicked mouth drawn uo in a  familiar smirk nipping gently and tonguing at the sensitive skin of his gills. Kaldur grips Roy’s hair tightly, pulling him in further, runs one webbed hand up along a pale side beneath Roy’s black shirt, slides down to palm at Roy’s crotch.

Roy groans, huffs little puffs of air into the warm skin of Kaldur’s neck, lifts a knee to press into Kaldur in kind. Kaldur tightens a hand in that soft red hair, pulls that perfect mouth away from his neck. Roy’s shirt comes off and Roy’s backing them up to the bed, tipping them over so they bounce side by side on the creaking mattress, breathless and grabbing each other desperately and trying so hard to just get _closer._

And then Roy’s rolling, pinning Kaldur beneath him and their fumbling at each other’s pants and everything’s warm and slick and then their flies are open and Kaldur’s pants are down and off his ankles. They end up crumpled in some dark corner of the room and Kaldur can’t think because Roy has both of them in his hand.

His head is thrown back and he’s panting and he can feel Roy’s breath on his neck again and then Roy’s attacking his gills, nipping and sucking at the dark folds of skin, tonguing them gently as they rock together. Kaldur brings one hand down between them to join Roy’s in the stroking and another up to Roy’s back to scrape up along those muscled shoulders and back down to squeeze his ass and it feels so _good_ and _warm_ and it’s _been too long_.

The pressure’s building hot and tight in his belly but he doesn’t want it to end like this because they only get _this_ , this _one_ night. So Kaldur puts a hand on Roy’s wrist and stills him and Roy looks up from where’s he’s _ravaging_ Kaldur’s _neck_ ; he’s got this lust-drunk confused look in his eyes that Kaldur missed so much and he doesn’t want to stop but they need to because it can’t end like this.

“Roy,” he pants, choked and husky and the look in Roy’s eyes makes him want to cease talking and just grab the other man and _go._ But he doesn’t, because it’s been a long time and he has to be sure, that this is okay, that they can do this tonight.

That Roy still wants that.

But it’s embarrassing to ask outright and there are some things he’s never learned to say eloquently so he just squeezes Roy’s wrist tighter and brings it around to palm his own ass. He loves Roy and Roy loves him but he still never figured out how to ask for _this_.

Except he doesn’t need to, because Roy, wonderful loud brash impulsive Roy just raises his eyebrows and grins and says _Oh hell yes--_  and _Are you sure?_ and then Kaldur nods and then all bets are off.

Roy’s divesting himself of his pants and there’s cool air and space between them for all of a moment before Roy’s back there in between Kaldur’s thighs, mapping a path down the dark and toned expanse of his chest with his mouth. One hand’s smoothing up and down Kaldur’s side while the other tangles as much as it can with Kaldur’s own on the bedspread. Roy’s fucking his tongue into Kaldur’s navel and Kaldur’s moaning and pushing up his hips and he’s so turned on it _hurts_.

Then there’s warm air puffing across Kaldur’s dick and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do because he wants Roy’s mouth there but he’s close because it’s been so long and he doesn’t want it to end yet. But Roy’s seems to know, seems to see it in his face when he looks up with those warm blue eyes so he smiles and presses a quick kiss to the dark, flushed leaking head, teasing and terrible and so like himself that Kaldur can’t help but laugh.

And Roy’s hands are sliding beneath his hips and Roy’s pressing wet, hot, open mouthed kisses against Kaldur’s inner thigh and lathing at the join of his hip and groin and Kaldur can’t laugh anymore because he. Cannot. _Breathe_.

Kaldur’s stretches for Roy’s discarded pants that are draped over the side of the bed instead of crumpled on the floor _thank Poseidon_ , and he’s rifling in the pockets for the bottle of lube and packet of condoms they picked up at the gas station. His hands are shaking and it’s fumbling and graceless because if Roy doesn’t get in him soon he’s not responsible for what he accidently does to Roy’s neck with his thighs.

Kaldur lets out another low moan as Roy find that one sensitive crease and just _bites_. Then he’s yanking Roy back up for another kiss and tangling his fingers and tugging at snarled sweat damp red hair with one hand while the other passes the other man the lube and condoms then there’s the soft pop of a cap. Roy’s urging Kaldur’s thighs up around his waist and there’s a long slick finger inside of him and _Oceanus_ , it’s been too long.

There’s a slight sweet burn and Kaldur’s bucking up his hips to welcome more and before he knows it one becomes two and then three and Roy’s obviously just as desperate as Kaldur because he’s panting hot against Kaldur’s mouth. His too-blue eyes are wide and hungry and lost but he’s trying to be careful because he thought he’d lost Kaldur for a moment and can’t bear the thought of hurting him when it’s been so long. So Roy goes thorough and gentle but fast, because he’s missed this so much and this might be the last time in a long time.

And in the heat and haze and desperation of it all, the desperate need to get closer Kaldur’s saying _Roy, Roy, **now**_ and then Roy’s re-adjusting them so everything’s comfortable and the tip is pressing against Kaldur’s entrance. He’s looking into Kaldur’s eyes that are shining silver green in the moonlight and he’s inching in and watching Kaldur’s face and asking _are you okay are you okay is this alright?_

And Kaldur’s throwing his head back and he loves Roy he does he loves that he cares and even loves that he chooses the _worst times_ to be tender because he needs this _now_. So he yanks Roy back down to him and pushes Roy’s hips forward with his ankles and whispers in his ear hot and commanding _Roy, my friend, **shut up** and **fuck** me_.

And then Roy’s _grinning_ and pressing down to kiss Kaldur and his hands go tight on Kaldur’s hips and then he _thrusts_ , and it’s _wonderful_.

Roy’s overwhelmed because Kaldur’s tight and hot and _good_ and he’s aiming for that spot that’ll make Kaldur moan and god he loves this man’s _voice_. He loves it, want to drown in it, especially when it’s wrecked on sex and Roy’s fucking the calm and controlled out of his tone and when Kaldur’s in the moment and enjoying it and getting _bossy_.

And Kaldur’s rocking up into it, and it burns and it’s slick and fantastic and Roy’s bumping up against the spot that makes him see stars. Their bodies are pressed together in the moonlight that’s filtering in through the window, dark and pale limbs intertwined and red and gold hair shining softly.

For the first time in too many long long months Kaldur feels _happy_ because he gets to have this moment with this man he’s felt slipping away from him for years now, but right here none of that matters nothing matters but Roy above him and with him and inside of him.

Too soon the heat’s coiling tight in their bellies, and Kaldur can read it in Roy’s eyes that he’s close and when Roy sees it in in his the red headed _bastard_ smirks again hot and _filthy._ Roy reaches down and grabs him and starts stroking him in time with his thrusts and Kaldur’s moaning, and it’s too much and too good and he’s _gone_.

His body tightens up and his thighs tense and everything goes still for a glowing moment then he’s coming and everything’s convulsing. He’s clenching down hot and _tight_ on Roy and Roy’s coming too and it’s perfect and both of them can see the stars.

Then Roy’s collapsed in a sweaty pile on top of Kaldur, their chests pressed together and their limbs tangled. Kaldur works to  get his breath back, content to lie there and enjoy the pleasant weight of Roy on top of him.

After a few long minutes Roy pulls gingerly out and rolls off to the side, ties off the condom and tosses it into the trash can from the other side of the room, smirking in satisfaction when it lands perfectly.  He lies down by Kaldur’s side and wraps a hand in the Atlantean’s and pulls that warm dark body to his and Kaldur tucks his head beneath Roy’s chin and they just let the silence stay for a bit.

When their bodies have cooled and Roy can no longer hear his own heart beating in his chest he rubs a hand slowly up and down Kaldur’s back.  He asks the question that’s been eating him since the docks.

“When are you coming back?” he asks softly. The tone isn’t begging, but it’s open and _vulnerable_ and Kaldur draws his arms around the other’s chest, works one beneath his body in a tight hug.

“I do not know,” he answers, equally soft. “There is little I can safely tell you, but I can say that I do not know when I will be able to return.”

Roy turns further into him, pulls Kaldur up so they’re at eye level. His face is open, worried and soft, honest in a way it only ever is when they’re alone like this. His expression goes serous, and he seems to brace himself for a blow.

“ _Will_ you be coming back?” he asks, voice rough. Kaldur is a little taken aback, at that. On further contemplation, it makes sense for Roy to ask the question. Over the year’s they’ve had many… _heated_ discussions, about Kaldur’s tendencies regarding his own safety on missions.

Kaldur sighs, reaching one hand to cup Roy’s cheek, tilts him into a soft kiss. “I will try,” he says, but there’s a color to his tone almost like a warning. _I will try, but sometimes there are costs._ “This is not meant to be a suicide mission. I will try to make my way back to you, to the Team.”

Roy nods, reaches up to claps Kaldur’s hand in his own. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I trust you, fishsticks.”

They fall into comfortable silence after that. Kaldur eventually drifts to sleep, Roy’s hand clasped in his. He is warm, tired, and _happy_ for the first time in a long time.

Roy stays awake for a small while longer, watching his sleeping companion. He squeezes Kaldur’s hand in his tightly.

“You better be careful, you bastard,” Roy whispers. “And when you get back,” he presses a kiss to Kaldur’s forehead, smiling with just a bit of bitterness, “Your explanation better be _really_ _good_.”

* * *

 

Roy sees Kaldur off at the docks the next day. There are still things sitting heavy and unspoken between them. Roy’s self-destructive search, his increasing involvement with Cheshire. Kaldur’s own issues- Tula’s death and the revelation of his blood father.

But those words will wait for other days. With luck they will not fester, and the questions between them can be answered on some brighter day.

There’s only a hint of bitterness in the last kiss they share, before Kaldur must slip off the dock and into the dark. Last night closed some wounds, even if it did not heal them. Roy cups Kaldur’s face in a callused hand, smooths a thumb from his cheek to the corner of his eyes. They embrace.

The next time they see each other Roy will have a wife and a child. He will have found Speedy, and Kaldur will have saved the world.

But those things are yet to come, and in this small, stolen moment all Kaldur can think of is how much he will miss the strength of Roy’s arms.


End file.
